Here where the scent of heather blows fine cascades of kisses to meet the fresh dew, I search for you though you cannot be found.

My heart is standing basalt, aching with the thaw of winter’s end. The pale wanning of solstice echoes in a spasm within this numb frame.

You are gone my love, where no pike or javelin may graze such fairness of head or keenness of limb. The poem of your breath is fading, spent in its power to call the vessel of my weary mind to harbour.

A kiss for you. Another. Brush of lip caresses an eyelid, invoking a smile but alas, the wind is my only lover.

Arms that held sinew and flesh now hang free in weave once distilled of its mire by your hands. Oh, for the divine slavery of our union to once more bless these rags with your toil.

This day I stood, awash with the noise and spray of the whale roads before me, to search the edge of the word for a sign of your sail. It was not revealed.

The stone is bare and smooth, there where the ancient pull of earth and these feeble soles have joined in devotion so often.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

AwakeningHow long had it been? It had to be 200, 300 years at least since the last official kill. “What the hell did they think they were playing at?” Jonathan mused As he deleted the encrypted order from his communicator and asked the car to close and merge with the general traffic. He almost couldn’t believe the two short words that gave new purpose to his existence.

It was a simple yet satisfying thing to merge with a population, after all, he was still classed as human on most of the worlds he commonly visited. All he had to do was maintain the behaviour expected of someone of the relevant class and profession; order the right things via his link, go to the right places at normal times, and generally conform to the multiplicity of local customs and bylaws governing the precinct in which he was ‘living’. Easy. The real challenge lies in disappearing at the right time, because with every part of your life under CC TV and recorded on the public record it took a great deal of forethought to subvert the system in such a way as to be undetectable or at the very least unremarkable.

It was not only that the authorities would be alerted by any subtle change in behaviour, because the human condition dictates that there will be aberrations and exploration no matter how strict code imposed upon it. Instead it had become a game in order to extract yourself from the mundane day to day existence without being noticed, and to resume the routine in such a way as to avoid the attention of the police.

On this occasion Jonathan chose executive clause # 325 whereby a citizen is allowed 7 minutes of unmonitored space for the purpose of toilet in any 12 hour period. Yes, I know, seven minutes is an unusual designation. The precise time was decided by a panel of 22 experts, and took an incredible 32 months of deliberation. Though rumour has it that in the end they just drew straws, but either way that is a bloody long time to decide how long it takes a man to take a crap!

On this occasion, seven minutes is all that was required to bring everything back online, dust himself off and get to work. They wouldn’t even miss him.

That is why they call him “the Hunter”. In the 32 centuries since he attained sentience there had never been a time where his abilities fell short. Unquestionably Jonathan was the master of his art. He would only receive a call when the keepers had no other alternative and all conventional means of resolution had failed. This in itself was most remarkable because the keepers were to most, god-like in their ability to manipulate time and space to maintain order, regardless of individual cost or localised concerns. Then they had been silent for such a long time. But enough about Jonathan. He would not appreciate this very personal scrutiny, and would certainly not condone any aggrandising of his abilities.

Jonathan stepped out of the elevator into the seething mass of foot traffic flowing through the central business district. With cool precision he began matching data files in alphabetical order, cross-referencing faces and names. Bodies began to fall 30 seconds in his wake, their faces going blank after the silibent whisper of his concealed air pistol ended their existence with its fast acting neurotoxin. They never knew what hit them.

Deep in the Central Museum on sub level IV, the school excursion continued. 12-year-olds William and Timothy tossed the ancient mobile phone back in its display case. Some of these old devices were amazing yet baffling - the packaging said it was called an “iPhone” and the application was named “Assassin”. The boys could make no sense of the instructions and with a giggle Timothy flippantly keyed-in the title of the obscure action film they had just watched in another area of the exhibit. “Kill Bill”. Their unqualified assessment of the device? “Harmless.”

This week’s prompt: Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Your Main Character is a time traveller. He/She arrives at a destination but not all is as expected….

“Inside out” is my first impression. If there is an up, it’s upside down. Somewhere behind me there is a rhythm. It’s a sort of tapping sound a bit like footsteps, but I can’t be sure because my ears are inside out as well. I would be surprised, but surprise isn’t strong enough to capture what I’m feeling. Raindrops. That’s what that sound is. Really big raindrops falling on the surface of the water, and I’m under there somewhere. I can’t see anything, but I feel pink. Really pink, like when you shine a torch through your fingers and see the bones inside. My heart is beating somewhere in here with me. Beating is too strong a word though because it’s more like a squelch that makes each part of me quiver every second or so.

It isn’t all bad. I’m moving now, and I can actually feel things going past my skin. It’s nice that they don’t hurt when they bump into me, being inside out and all. I’d like to scratch that bit at the nape of my neck. I really would. No, I really need to because it’s driving me spare. Oh god, my arms! They’re gone; and my legs! I’m like an unrecognisable piece of road kill sealed in cling wrap.

Bloody Museum. They told me the HG Wells Time machine wasn’t just a replica. Since when has their information actually been correct? When I read the book, I’m sure he push the lever downwards to go forward in time. Didn’t he?

I think I went backwards. A long way backwards. Its going to be a wait. A long wait for evolution to put me back on track. A long way back to vertebrate for this little amoeba.To view the other responses to this prompt go to: http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/